The Wandering Jew — Volume 09 eBook

“You hear,” said Morok, with a diabolical
smile, “you hear, Jacques? Will you now
retreat before the danger?”

At these words, which reminded him of the peril to
which he was about to expose himself, Jacques started,
as if a sudden idea had occurred to him. He raised
his head proudly, his cheeks were slightly flushed,
his eye shone with a kind of gloomy satisfaction,
and he exclaimed in a firm voice: “Hang
it, waiter! are you deaf? I asked you for two
bottles of brandy.”

“Yes, sir,” said the waiter, going to
fetch them, although himself frightened at what might
be the result of this bacchanalian struggle. But
the mad and perilous resolution of Jacques was applauded
by the majority.

Ninny Moulin moved about on his chair, stamped his
feet, and shouted with all his might: “Bacchus
and drink! bottles and glasses! the throats are dry!
brandy to the rescue! Largess! largess!”

And, like a true champion of the tournament, he embraced
Modeste, adding, to excuse the liberty: “Love,
you shall be the Queen of Beauty, and I am only anticipating
the victor’s happiness!”

“Brandy to the rescue!” repeated they
all, in chorus. “Largess!”

“Gentlemen,” added Ninny Moulin, with
enthusiasm, “shall we remain indifferent to
the noble example set us by Goodman Cholera? He
said in his pride, `brandy!’ Let us gloriously
answer, ‘punch!’”

“Yes, yes! punch!”

“Punch to the rescue!”

“Waiter!” shouted the religious writer,
with the voice of a Stentor, “waiter! have you
a pan, a caldron, a hogshead, or any other immensity,
in which we can brew a monster punch?”

“A Babylonian punch!”

“A lake of punch!”

“An ocean of punch!”

Such was the ambitious crescendo that followed the
proposition of Ninny Moulin.

“Sir,” answered the waiter, with an air
of triumph, “we just happen to have a large
copper caldron, quite new. It has been used, and
would hold at least thirty bottles.”

“Bring the caldron!” said Ninny Moulin,
majestically.

“The caldron forever!” shouted the chorus.

“Put in twenty bottles of brandy, six loaves
of sugar, a dozen lemons, a pound of cinnamon, and
then—­fire! fire!” shouted the religious
writer, with the most vociferous exclamations.

“Yes, yes! fire!” repeated the chorus!

The proposition of Ninny Moulin gave a new impetus
to the general gayety; the most extravagant remarks
were mingled with the sound of kisses, taken or given
under the pretext that perhaps there would be no to-morrow,
that one must make the most of the present, etc.,
etc. Suddenly, in one of the moments of
silence which sometimes occur in the midst of the greatest
tumult, a succession of slow and measured taps sounded
above the ceiling of the banqueting-room. All
remained silent, and listened.